


A Quiet Winter's Walk

by bookjunkiecat



Series: Longings [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Loneliness, M/M, Other, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-07
Updated: 2016-12-07
Packaged: 2018-09-07 05:00:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8784109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat
Summary: Molly and Mycroft enjoy a day in the country. But under the surface of friendship, deeper feelings lie.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is (for now) a stand-alone piece. However, I have more planned, especially if there is any interest. This is my very first piece of published fan-fiction, and suggestions, reviews, comments and feedback would be much appreciated. I have rated the story T for now, although it may be raised to Mature later.
> 
> The usual disclaimer! I don't own these lovely creatures, I'm just borrowing them from ACD, Mofftiss and the BBC.

The wind had pinked Molly’s cheeks, and whipped strands of hair loose from her braid; the walk and the company left her with sparkling eyes and a shy allure. The man walking next to her was aware of all of these things.

          “You’re looking well, Molly,” he complimented in his quiet way.

          Molly looked down at herself; skinny jeans tucked into red Wellingtons, a streamlined navy blue pea coat over a soft black cashmere jumper, which she had layered with a red and black Buffalo plaid button down. Her beanie hat was blue, pink and red, patterned with hearts and snowflakes, topped with an oversized bobble. It should have looked ridiculous, juvenile. Mycroft Holmes thought it was adorable.

          “Thank you. You look impeccable as always,” Molly commented, “I don’t know how you always look like you stepped out of an issue of GQ, no matter where you are.”

          Mycroft hoped the wind could be blamed for his red cheeks. He rather thought his tweed and corduroy ensemble suited a walk in the country, but he knew he wasn’t the flashy modern dresser his brother was, nor did he have the casual aplomb to wear jeans, a jumper and a leather coat like Doctor Watson. He felt every one of the eleven years between himself and Molly Hooper, and most days he supposed his three piece suits highlighted that fact. But today, for their outing in the countryside, he had tried to dress accordingly.

          Of course, it probably didn’t matter what he wore, he didn’t suppose that Molly thought much of him, personally. Circumstances, chiefly those surrounding Sherlock’s faked suicide and subsequent flight to parts unknown, had thrown them into one another’s company; and during the seventeen months since the scandal surrounding his little brother had broken, these two lonely people had found themselves becoming…friends.

          Mycroft was used to being separated from the rest of the world. Very few people were capable of the level of understanding required for conversing with him. He found the vast majority to be idiots, and while he had no patience for them, unlike his brother, he kept that fact (mostly) to himself.

          On the surface, he shouldn’t have had anything in common with Molly. She was sweet, naïve, an optimist; she fell quiveringly in love with a man based on very little acquaintance, and then inevitably had her heart broken. Her idea of a refined evening out was pasta and wine with her girlfriends. She loved musicals and romantic comedies and she decorated for every holiday. He was aware that she had a dizzyingly vast collection of romance novels, he had heard her talking about horoscopes and he suspected her cat had a wardrobe of jumpers to match hers.

          But. Well. The thing was…when he was with her he felt…happy.

          He could be quiet in her company and she didn’t take it personally. In the early days, she had rushed to fill silences between them with words, as if she thought they might absorb the deafening ring of silence. He had snapped at her one day to quit her babbling, and had been gratified when she stopped talking. It was only a few minutes later, when he looked at her, that he was appalled to see her biting her lip to stop it shaking, and blinking back tears.

          Mycroft apologized most handsomely and she forgave him graciously, and admitted that silences made her nervous because she hardly ever knew what to say. He assured her that he liked silence, and it was no reflection on her if he fell into a study while they were together.

          After that, they were more comfortable.

          It was strange how someone so warm, kind, and _human_ could suit him. But he found her company refreshing, once she relaxed. She was a bit of an amateur history buff, and they had many interesting discussions, particularly about the Second World War, with which they were both fascinated.

          Although she was no gourmand, she appreciated good food; he improved her palate and introduced her to some of his favorite wines.

          Quite by chance they found that they both liked to garden, although he had little time for it, and she had room for no more than potted plants and herbs, many of which crowded each room of her flat. They had had several enjoyable hours strolling the botanical gardens, and he had been toying with the idea of inviting her over to help him plan the spring gardening he would instruct his gardener to undertake. She had yet to come to his home, and he was a little uncomfortable with the idea, as he was intensely private. Besides, if she were to come to his house, he was afraid she might linger there in memory, unsettling him.

          Although most of her musical choices made him cringe, they had a mutual liking for classical music, and during the Christmas holidays he had invited her to a concert which they both enjoyed.

          On one or two occasions she had cooked for him, and he was half in love with her baked goods. The woman was delightfully and unexpectedly domestic for someone who cut up dead bodies for a living and had such a very scientific frame of mind.

          He wondered what she saw in him, what benefits his friendship had for her. I’ve improved her knowledge of wines, he thought, taken her to the theatre… I don’t cringe and change the subject when she talks shop. He wondered if that was enough. What did people normally look for in friends? He hadn’t a clue; friends were never really something he had. In his childhood it had just been he and his brothers, and then at school he was so much the superior that he had utterly alienated his schoolmates. The nature of his work was secretive, and he was well aware that he was regarded by others with fear, suspicion and sometimes with pity. The Iceman, they called him.

          Really, the nickname didn’t bother him. It was a most advantageous image to cultivate in his line of work, and he rarely bothered with what others thought of him. Only, sometimes, the name felt too true, as if he had been carved of ice, hardened over millennia, and doomed to a sub-arctic solitude.

          Perhaps the chief attraction he held for Molly was that they were privy to the same dangerous secret. Or just that while Molly Hooper had many friends, she didn’t have many male companions. He was aware that she had lost her father when she was young, and that it had left a void in her life. She may even think of me as a father figure, Mycroft reflected gloomily, unsure why the idea unsettled him. He wasn’t _that_ much older than her.

          Seeing her shiver, he stepped closer, blocking some of the wind with his body, and tentatively putting an arm around her. She flashed him a grateful smile and tucked herself firmly against his side. He averted his face, absurdly pleased. “Should we be going?” He asked a trifle reluctantly, as it was quite shockingly cold, the persistent wind now beginning to carry heavy droplets of moisture.

          She sighed prettily, “I suppose. This has been lovely, but it would be dreadful to get caught out here in a heavy storm.”

          A brief but vivid fantasy of seeking shelter in an abandoned cottage swirled through his orderly mind, to be regretfully but firmly dismissed. He was too fastidious to find dirt and disorder a spur to intimacy, which was not in the order of the day, no matter how persistently the idea of being the type of hero found in her paperbacks was trying to present itself. There was no point in going down that road.

          “Tea, I think, and then we had best head home. Tomorrow will come all too soon, and I have an early meeting.”

          Once in the Range Rover, he steered them over the bumpy road back toward civilization. “There’s a delightful inn a few miles away, they do a heavenly tea.”

          “Sounds perfect,” Molly murmured, taking off her puffy mittens and tucking them in her coat pocket, and twisting to retrieve her purse from the back seat. She pulled out her favorite peppermint lip balm and applied it while checking out her reflection in the vanity mirror. A distressed squeak drew Mycroft’s attention briefly from the road. “Molly?”

          “Oh goodness, you didn’t tell me I looked like a scarecrow!”

          “Hardly that,” Mycroft said with quiet amusement.

          “My hair,” Molly moaned in feminine dismay, surveying her windblown and tangled locks. She had started out the day with her hair woven to the side in a rather complicated French braid, but the wind had played havoc with it.

          “At least you have enough hair to get mussed,” Mycroft said with mock mourning, referencing his thinning auburn hair, which he normally wore slicked back, which only served to highlight his receding hairline and widow’s peak. Today it was mostly hidden by a black Persian lamb’s wool Ushanka, but Molly stopped fussing with her hair long enough to give him a warm smile, “You have plenty of hair. I think it looks lovely when you leave it natural.”

          The tips of his ears turned pink and he suppressed a pleased smile, “Thank you, my dear, it’s kind of you to say so.”

          In mutual cozy regard they rode the remaining miles to the inn, and walked in to the snug, fire-lit tavern together, parting for the Gents and the Ladies.

          Molly took off her hat and set about repairing the worst of the damage to her hair. She looked at herself in the mirror, sternly, no-nonsense, “Molly Hooper, you stop this. You were almost flirting, and out there you _practically snuggled up to him._ ” She tidied her hair, and continued her lecture internally. Mycroft Holmes is your friend. He has no interest in you as anything else and you need to stop mooning over him. You already wasted years crushing on his brother. Even if Mycroft was interested in a relationship it wouldn’t be with _you._

          Shaking off the faint feeling of sadness her thoughts brought on, she put away her brush and pins, and took a final look in the mirror. Confident that she looked as presentable as she could manage, she rejoined him in the tavern and let him lead her to a table close to the giant hearth, where a fire roared. Mycroft helped her off with her coat and held her chair. She was still trying to accustom herself to these old-world courtesies, the type of behavior that Mycroft displayed as naturally as breathing, but which was almost as out of fashion as Victorian mourning jewelry.

          As promised, they had a lovely tea and much refreshed they settled themselves in the Range Rover and headed back toward London.

          “Thank you for today,” Molly said softly, sometime later, “It was just what I needed, a quiet walk.”

          “Thank you for joining me. I find it helps to clear my mind if I escape from town life and walk for miles. Despite my brother’s delight in taunting me, there is a certain type of legwork I enjoy.”

          She laughed, “I far prefer a walk in the country to running after criminals, not that I’ve had the opportunity…but I can’t imagine it would suit me.”

          “Your talents are better suited to the lab and the morgue. I for one can’t see you running around London after my brother, as Doctor Watson does.” Did, he thought gloomily, aware that it would be some time before his brother was able to return to his previous life.

          “I’d be a terrible spy, too nervous.”

          “Oh I don’t know, in some ways you would be the perfect spy. Quiet, unassuming, far more clever and observant than people realize. You are often taken for granted, because people don’t bother to look closely and thus miss your strengths.” Like my brother, he reflected grimly. Sherlock had never realized Molly’s worth until he was being backed against a wall and she presented an escape route. Even now he doubted his reckless younger brother truly appreciated the woman who had loved him quietly for so many years. The direction of his thoughts put him in a foul mood, and he drove the rest of the way in silence, Molly sensing his mood and falling silent as well.

          He stopped at the kerb outside her building and she thanked him again for the day; Mycroft roused himself sufficiently to respond in kind, and waited as she unlocked the front door to the building and disappeared inside.

          Traffic was horrendous, and it further highlighted his depression. By the time he had made it home he was not fit to be around anyone. After parking the Range Rover in the mews garage, he entered his town home through the basement kitchen in the back.

          The house was warm, the kitchen smelled deliciously of coffee and the soup simmering on the hob, and Valentine, who had been polishing silver at the kitchen table, rose to his feet. “Good afternoon Mr. Holmes, how was your drive?”

          Mycroft found a smile for the man who had served his grandfather and now worked so diligently for himself. “It was just what I needed, thank you Valentine.”

          “No doubt you’ll be wanting some coffee after being out in the cold. Shall I bring the tray to your study, sir?”

          “The drawing room, please, Valentine.”

          “Will you be dining in this evening, sir? I made a parsnip soup and I can easily whip up a soufflé or an omelet if you want something light.”

          “A soufflé would be lovely, thank you. I’ll dine at eight.”

          Mycroft stirred brandy into his coffee and settled into a comfortable chair in front of the fire. The soft pop of the burning logs, the steady tick of the Regency bracket clock on the mantel, the silence of the big empty house…normally it soothed him, his active brain nourishing itself in silence. But today he was unsettled, his emotions disordered. He longed for something—for someone—to break the quiet, ease his solitude.

          Giving in to weakness, he imagined Molly sitting in the chair opposite him, the fire light highlighting her mousy hair, casting shadows on her ordinary but—just say it—oh so dear face. They would talk, as they did, with ease and familiarity, the occasional silence comfortable, not embarrassing. They would linger over their coffees, perhaps he would read aloud or Molly would shyly play the piano for him as he knew she could do, and then Valentine would call them to dinner. They would dine intimately by candlelight, enjoy a sherry after and then—

          Yes, and then. And then what? his mind mocked. There was no _and then_. Not for them. Not for him, no there wouldn’t be, couldn’t be.


End file.
